


The Recollection of Us

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Isn't Canon, F/M, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Post Rittenhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 22:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: In which the team forgets, Lucy remembers, and some things are meant to be.





	The Recollection of Us

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing a lot of fluff lately. Don't worry, this makes up for it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas!

She remembers.

In some ways, she thinks it would be better if she didn't.

The memories of time travel, of walking in the past and meeting the heroes from her books, are a small comfort compared to the aching knowledge of all she's lost. 

It would be better if she wasn't alone, but she made her choice. She chose to take that final trip to the past alone. When she returned, Rittenhouse was gone, and things were the way they were always meant to be. Now she's the only one who remembers. 

Wyatt and Jessica are happily married, with two beautiful bouncing children. No secrets, no death, no betrayal. She goes to them once, pretends to bump into them in the street. The way they look at each other, in utter adoration, leaves a bittersweet ache in her heart. 

Rufus and Jiya, she discovers, work at Mason Industries. She can't get close enough to find out if they're together, but she can't imagine that they aren't. Mason is thriving, and Lucy has to wonder if Rittenhouse orchestrated his bankruptcy in the first place. Researching Agent Christopher brings up little, most of it classified, but she seems to be happy as well. 

Everyone is happy. 

Except Lucy. 

(Maybe that's her price, her punishment for the poison in her bloodline. It only seems fair, in a way. Her family brought so much misery to all of them, her happiness seems like a fair trade for theirs.) 

She does have Amy, in a sense, but not quite. Because her sister remembers their mother dying of cancer, and Lucy not even coming to the funeral. It is hard to make up for something you do not remember doing, and it is hard to feign grief for the monster their mother was. (She envies the Lucy of this timeline, the one raised by a mother free of cults and legacies. Perhaps that Lucy could have mourned her mother’s death.) Still, she tries to mend things as best she can, even agreeing to help with a local middle school pageant at Amy’s plea. 

Through it all, there's one person she can't bring herself to look up. She can still feel his lips against hers, the frantic goodbye neither of them could quite voice. (It wasn't supposed to be like this.) His voice echoes through her mind, begging her to let him come with her, terrified of forgetting. The pain in his eyes when she pointed out the truth, that his daughter needed him to remember the new timeline, that little Iris would be hurt if her father forgot three years of her life, will forever be seared inside her. 

(It was the right choice. She knows it, just like he did. It's why he let her go. But still, it keeps her up at night.) 

In the end, she has to know. 

She’s surprised by how easy it is to find his address; a quick search shows that he lives in his old home, the one he told her so much about. The one where Iris and Lorena died. (But not this time. In this timeline, they’re alive, they have to be, because Rittenhouse doesn’t exist to destroy them.

Later, she will think she should have checked.) 

On the drive to his house, she almost talks herself out of it half a dozen times. This is a terrible, terrible idea, and she knows it. But she has to see him, to make sure he’s happy. So she goes over her script in her head, over and over until she can almost recite it in her sleep. 

_ “Hello. My name is Lucy. I’m with the American Psychology Foundation, and I’m doing a random survey. Do you mind answering a few questions?”  _

She has a list of questions to ask if he says yes, although she’s not sure what she’ll do if he says no. Leave, probably. Respect his wishes, the way he tried so hard to respect hers. But if he lets her, she’ll ask him about his work, his family, his life, and most importantly, if he’s happy. If she knows that, she’ll be able to sleep at night. 

Maybe.

When she knocks on the door, her heart starts racing, and she briefly considers just passing out on the porch. It might be easier than seeing him again. What if he’s angry with her for intruding? What if he slams the door in her face? What if he asks her questions she can’t answer? (And a tiny part of her brain wonders what will happen if he remembers her. If somehow, against all odds, he opens the door and takes her into his arms, promising to never let her go again.)

None of these things happen. Instead, he steps outside, and greets her with polite confusion. “Hello?”

She can’t breathe. He’s wearing a dark turtleneck and faded jeans, and his hair is wet and disheveled, like he just got out of the shower. He’s real, he’s alive, he’s right in front of her, and he’s looking at her like a complete stranger. Her hands shake, just a little, but she clears her throat once, then twice.  _ I can do this. I can do this. _

“Hello. My name is-” Her tongue twists, and she closes her eyes briefly, steadying herself. (This was a terrible idea.) “Lucy. Lucy Preston, and I-”

_ How do you know my name? _

_ I know everything about you. _

She shatters.

It’s mortifying, sobbing in front of him like this, no matter how many times she’s done it before. But this is different, he doesn’t know her, and she’s probably scaring him. And yet, she can’t seem to stop, can’t get ahold of herself enough to even choke out an explanation and run. Her plan is definitely shot now; no way is he going to buy her as an impersonal stranger taking a survey. “I’m so sorry,” she manages, stumbling a half step back toward her car. She’s about to turn to go when his voice stops her, low and hesitant.

“Wait! Lucy, was it?” His eyes are tender and concerned, and she can hardly stand to look at them. Shakily, she nods. “Is everything-” He pauses. Maybe thinks better of the question. “Would you like to come in?” 

No. Yes. She isn’t sure. She wants to see him, to talk to him, but not like this. He reaches for her tentatively, and rests his hand on her elbow. “Come on,” he murmurs, gently tugging. “Come inside for a bit.” 

She doesn’t remember agreeing, but her feet seem to move of their own volition, following him into the house. It’s a nice place, brightly lit, with colorful throws and dozens of pictures. It’s warm and inviting, and surprisingly quiet. He motions to the couch, and she accepts shakily, dropping down onto the soft cushions. She still can’t stop  _ crying,  _ but at least the noisy sobs have calmed to silent tears. 

“My wife did most of the decorating,” he tells her, tugging a nearby chair over so he can sit across from her. “Iris has added her own touch to things, of course-sorry, that’s my daughter.” He’s rambling, talking to fill the silence, to distract her from whatever is making her cry. It would have worked, but her brain catches on a small part of it.

“Did?”

He blinks. “Hm?”

She swallows hard, forcing the words out. “Your wife _ did _ the decorating? Is she-” 

“Gone.” His gaze drops. “A few years ago, there was-a storm. She didn’t-well. She didn’t make it home.” He mutters something she can't quite make out, before apologizing. “Forgive me, I shouldn't have- You’re upset, and I-” 

It’s almost enough to send her into another fit of sobs, both his loss and his apology, but she draws in a breath, steadying herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and he shifts uncomfortably. 

“Thank you. But now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” His eyes are impossibly soft and understanding, even to a total stranger, and she almost tells him everything. (The way she’s always been able to. He’s her safe haven, the one person she always knows she can trust.) In the end, it’s not even the fear that he won’t believe her that holds her back; it’s the fear that he will. How could she ask him to accept a world where his daughter was dead, where he left a blood trail through history, just for her? 

Wiping her eyes, she scrambles for an explanation. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “It’s just, I lost someone recently, and I wasn’t expecting-” Her gaze drops. She can’t lie to him. “You look like him. A lot like him.” 

He makes a quiet noise of understanding. “A month after Lorena died, I… I saw someone at the grocery store. Looked just like her, you know? The hair, and... I followed her out, and chased her for three blocks.” A quiet scoff. “I was lucky she didn’t call the police.” 

It’s a simple story, if heavy; the kind he would have let slip between drinks, in a different lifetime. She cannot think of a reply. “Anyway,” she murmurs, clearing her throat, “I should go. I’m sorry for all of this.”

He waves away her apologies easily. “Nothing to be sorry for. But, if you don’t mind me asking… I assume you came here for a reason?”

_ Why are you here? _

How unfair, that now would be the moment she finally understands what he almost said that day.

For a long moment, she considers returning to her script, but she does not have the heart for it. At this point, she is too tired to pretend. (She has never been able to pretend with him, not really. And certainly not since a night of vodka and talking, where she told him things she’d never told anyone.) 

“I just… Wanted to make sure you were okay,” she admits quietly.

He blinks. “Pardon?”

At least he isn’t throwing her out of the building.

Yet.

“I know, okay? I know it sounds strange, and I promise, in just a minute, I’ll be out of your life, and you’ll never have to worry about me again-” Her heart nearly shatters at the thought. She plows on, rambling, trying to land on something that will hurt a little less. “But I just want to make sure. Are you… Happy?”

He stares at her, utterly bewildered, and she almost wishes he’d throw her out, because this blank look is crushing her. Slowly, he opens his mouth, but quickly closes it again, seemingly at a loss. “I-yes?” He says finally, and she exhales.

“Good. Good, that’s good.” She stands, absently debating the best kind of ice cream to eat before she cries herself to sleep tonight. She will be fine, eventually, but… Not tonight. “I should go, I-”

“Lucy.” As always, his voice fixes her in place. “Who  _ are  _ you?”

Isn’t that the question? “I’m no one.” To him, at least, it is the truth. “Just someone who-” Loves, she almost says, but the word is too big, too heavy, and it sticks in her throat. “Cares about you.” 

“I-” He starts, but says nothing more, and she does not dare look back to see his face. 

“Goodbye, Garcia.” This is the only time she has ever called him by that name, she realizes, and her heart breaks a little more. Then again, maybe it is better that way. Wondering what might have been must be better than knowing exactly what she’s lost.

She barely registers him pointing out that he hasn’t told her his name, hastily stumbling out of the building. 

It’s fine. This is fine. She’ll cry tonight, and tomorrow, she will go teach about Women’s History. She will start rehearsals for the middle school pageant, and have a blast with the kids. It will be fine. And she will not think of Garcia Flynn again. He is out of her life, forever, and for her own sanity, she will keep him there.

(She does not know whether to laugh or cry the next day, when she sees a familiar name on the pageant’s cast list:

_ Iris Flynn. _

Of course it could never be as simple as walking away from him.) 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to go hide now. Thank you for reading!


End file.
